


Sherlolly 5: A Cold

by George_Sand



Series: George_Sand Sherlolly Series 1 [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bath, Cold, Comfort, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Illness, Sherlock reads aloud, Sherlock's Skull - Freeform, Sherlock's robe, Silk - Freeform, garlic - Freeform, tea tree oil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:51:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9451025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/George_Sand/pseuds/George_Sand
Summary: Molly gets a cold and Sherlock goes over the top trying to care for herPart 5 of George_Sand Sherlolly Series 1. Please read the series in order, each builds upon the last.Sherlock's face fills with concern as he cradles Molly's, stroking her cheekbones with his thumbs. Molly watches his eyes search her face more carefully, almost as if looking for signs of physical assault.  Still holding her gently, he speaks in his familiar investigative voice, “When did you first notice the symptoms?”  Then, almost aggressively, “Who were you with, what had you been doing in the days before the symptoms appeared?” as if ready to summon all of Lestrade’s – or Mycroft’s – resources to track down the culprit.“It was the rhinovirus.  Or maybe the coronavirus.   I didn’t get a good look, it was dark and there were so many microbes,” Molly says completely seriously, as if describing a mob hit. Sherlock knows his being made fun of, and after trying to suppress an eye roll with a long blink, says, “I don’t like your being sick,” as if the world has been up-ended. Orhisworld, thinks Molly, fondly.





	

_Coffee (literal)? – SH_

_Tea, if you dare.  I’ve caught cold. – MH_

_I’ll come. – SH_

 Molly is surprised when it takes almost an hour for Sherlock to ring her flat’s intercom.  He usually doesn’t take long to appear after a text (he’s been known to text from her vestibule).  She buzzes him up and he appears at her door with his violin case.  He enters the flat, utters a business-like “Hello,” and sets the case on the kitchen table.  Sherlock turns to Molly and squints at her face, noting the red, slightly swollen nose, vaguely watery eyes, and pink cheeks.  Without a word he goes straight to the bathroom and Molly can hear him turn the bath water on full blast.

Molly hears doubt in Sherlock’s voice as he calls, “Is this towel clean?”, but she ignores it as she smells something sharp in the now-humid air.  She’s been standing bemused in the kitchen this whole time, and Sherlock finally re-joins her.  Striding from the bathroom to the kitchen, Sherlock stops right in front of Molly.  His face fills with concern as he cradles hers, stroking her cheekbones with his thumbs. Molly watches his eyes search her face more carefully, almost as if looking for signs of physical assault.  Still holding her gently, he speaks in his familiar investigative voice,

 “When did you first notice the symptoms?”  Then, almost aggressively, “Who were you with, what had you been doing in the days before the symptoms appeared?” as if ready to summon all of Lestrade’s – or Mycroft’s – resources to track down the culprit. 

 “It was the rhinovirus.  Or maybe the coronavirus.   I didn’t get a good look, it was dark and there were so many microbes,” Molly says completely seriously, as if describing a mob hit. 

          Sherlock knows his being made fun of, and after trying to suppress an eye roll with a long blink, says, “I don’t like your being sick,” as if the world has been up-ended.

Or his world, thinks Molly, fondly.  However, Molly says, exasperated, “I can take care of myself, Sherlock, I am a medical doctor.”  

 Sherlock counters, “You take care of dead people.”

 Molly retorts, “You get off on dead people,” and Sherlock knows he’s been beaten.   

“Anyway, why are you so worried about a cold, don’t you ever get sick?”  

 “No,” says Sherlock, completely seriously, “not that I’m aware of.  But knowing about illness does not make you immune to it, Doctor Hooper, so please accept treatment.  Now into the bath!”

 Sherlock opens his violin case a little and pulls out, not his instrument, but his silk robe.  “The ancient Egyptians discovered the anti-microbial properties of silk.  All the day clothes you own seem to be made of cotton or wool, and it’s not a great leap of logic to conclude that you don’t have any silk in this flat, so you can use my robe.” 

 Molly cannot believe how over-the-top he is, but is pleased he’s lending her something so personal, so she acquiesces.  As she enters the bathroom she recalls recent literature describing the (somewhat questionable) efficacy of silk pants against _Candida albicans_ , a common cause of yeast infections.  Not colds.  But she is too tired to argue about it with Sherlock.

 Through the door, Sherlock says, “I’ll alert you in 25 minutes – you will have inhaled and soaked in sufficient oil but the water will not have become too cold.  In the case that your nasal passages are too full and dulled to perceive, I’ve put tea tree oil in your bath water.”  Almost as if he can see Molly scoff, Sherlock continues, slightly chidingly, “Tea tree oil has been used for thousands of years in a variety of restorative treatments.  A treatment that is old is not necessarily antiquated, and modern medicine would do well to remember its roots, Doctor.” 

 Dumbfounded to discover this unexpected room in Sherlock’s mind palace, Molly ties her hair up and sinks into the bath.  The water is very hot but not searing, the oil’s scent is very strong but not stifling, and Molly breathes in the moist, pungent air.  She hears a muffled pounding sound from the kitchen but thinks nothing of it as she slides deeper into the water. 

 After what Molly is sure is precisely 25 minutes, Sherlock knocks on the bathroom door, politely instructing her to dry thoroughly and put on the silk robe.  When Molly enters the kitchen she finds Sherlock grinding a powerfully scented slurry with his mortar and pestle, and she wonders apprehensively what else is in the violin case.  Apparently deciding that the mixture is ready, he scrapes it into a mug, adds water and vinegar, and proffers it to Molly.

 Molly blanches at the concoction saying, “No, Sherlock,” before he can utter a word. 

 Sherlock looks up and starts, “Really, Molly, the medicinal benefits of garlic have been known to many cultures for…” 

 “Yes, love, and even modernly for heart disease and other uses, but, ew, no.”  Although the term of endearment slipped from Molly almost sarcastically, Sherlock’s scientific description of various healing herbs peters out of his mind.  Molly doesn’t seem to notice the word, but her voice softens as she says,

 “The bath was great, Sherlock, I’m sure you can hear that my sinuses are clearer.  Now, please, can we just rest?!”

 Molly shuffles away to the couch and Sherlock follows without argument. 

 As she drops onto the couch with a huff, he exclaims, “Sinuses!” and walks around the couch to stand behind Molly and put his fingers forcefully on either side of her nose.  Molly is surprised, but lets her head fall back onto the couch; she knows he is giving her a sinus massage.  The steady pressure of Sherlock’s fingers against her cheek and eye bones is almost painful, but not quite, as she knows it should be.  It indeed relieves some of the pressure, and Molly appreciates his touch.  Meanwhile, Sherlock has left the subject of traditional healing in the kitchen, but has taken up a monologue about his latest case.  Describing the dead body, he gets so excited that his hands flail to join his explanation and they almost hit Molly’s face.  Looking up, Molly catches his wrists and quiets him with a half-annoyed, half-pleading look. 

 Sherlock gives up and walks around the couch to join Molly.  She can feel that he is uneasy in inactivity, but he relaxes as Molly settles into his chest.  Sherlock can see one of Molly’s wrists extending from the sleeve of his robe, and he unthinkingly picks it up and gently palpates the veins and tendons on the back of her hand.  After a few moments, he absently turns her hand over and familiarly strums the tendons inside her wrist, as he would his violin.  Molly rolls her wrist and flexes her fingers, encouraging him and enjoying the silent, intimate music.  She glances at the violin case on the table, wishing Sherlock had brought its correct contents. 

 “Sherlock, it would have been nice to hear you play.  I know it might be silly, but would you read to me instead?” 

 Although she has never mentioned it, she loves the deep timbre of his voice and guesses that it will help her relax.  She half-sits to grab her book from the end table and hands it to Sherlock.  Glad that he does not have (or that he keeps to himself) any comments about her choice of reading material, Molly waits as he finds the bookmark and begins to read.  She is right.  His voice is comforting and almost melodious when allowed to read printed text, uninterrupted, and she feels as much as hears it reverberating from his chest into her back.  Soon, Molly falls asleep, laying back on Sherlock, absorbing his voice. 

 Presently, Sherlock realizes that Molly is asleep, and is annoyed with himself for not knowing precisely when she dropped off.  If he inserts the bookmark at the current page, she will have missed some of her story.  Sherlock isn’t sure why this is such a tragedy in his mind, but he inwardly promises to help her find the exact place tomorrow.  That settled, he vacillates between waking Molly and helping her to bed, or allowing her to continue sleeping undisturbed on the couch. Eventually concluding that she will inevitably rouse when he extracts himself from under her, he decides to wake her and take her to her room.  Sherlock moves to sit, then stand, and Molly gains just enough consciousness to be led to her room.  Sherlock helps her into bed, quickly visits the kitchen, and brings one last remedy into her room.  As he tucks the blanket around her, he says, “Goodnight, love”. 

 In the morning, Molly wakes to find his skull on her night table.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This work has not been beta-ed, please send constructive criticism!


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